


Red Blood, Black Hearts

by OberonPrime



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, Blackrom, D/s, F/F, Humanstuck, It's just a horny fic. That's all there is to it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-02
Updated: 2019-11-02
Packaged: 2021-01-20 16:23:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21284651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OberonPrime/pseuds/OberonPrime
Summary: The life and thoughts of Latula Pyrope, attorney-at-law, and the suspiciously wealthy layabout that she's a little too weak for.(Will be updated sporadically. Rating may go up.)
Relationships: Spinneret Mindfang/Neophyte Redglare
Comments: 1
Kudos: 2





	Red Blood, Black Hearts

**Author's Note:**

> I'm fond of the mechanic of Signless' visions of his past life on Beforus and the way that's often extended to the rest of the trolls as well in human AUs, so that's the operating principle here.  
This isn't exactly a political work at the moment, but merely by virtue of translating these canonically very influential characters into a human context, it is 100% guaranteed to become so eventually. Warning for whenever that happens, I suppose.

“You know… I hate that you keep that thing on even in bed.”

Latula jerks in surprise and turns to look beside her. The bed is wide—just the way they both like it—and Aranea’s face is at least a foot away, but even in the half-light, her eyes are open and alert.

“I don’t wear it for your approval,” Latula says stiffly, after a moment’s pause. The pendant she was absent-mindedly fidgeting with slips from her fingers, resting low on her bare chest; lower than most people will ever see. “Shouldn’t you be asleep?”

“Shouldn’t  _ you? _ ” Aranea purrs. “Long day at work tomorrow and all that? At least I got nothing to do.”

Latula Pyrope, up-and-coming attorney, has more long days at work than otherwise. The law, she is learning, is a living beast unto itself. On some days it is all she can do to keep it from crushing innocent people underfoot or swallowing them whole. On other days, she hopes that she is accomplishing  _ something  _ more meaningful than damage control—something grander than the drudgery of the courts and the mountains of paperwork. Something worth the daily half liter of black coffee she carries to her office in her very carefully padded thermos flask. (God forbid, she has  _ papers _ in her bag too. Imagine.) Something worth the sign on the pendant, god damn it, but she doesn’t care to articulate that last part.

Aranea respects her work and her drive, but not her coffee habit.  _ Tula, you dumbass, you’re gonna die young drinking that shit. _ Latula privately agrees with her about the coffee, if not about being a dumbass. She didn’t get this far in life by having no self-respect.

Though for someone with self-respect…

“Hey, don’t zone out on me now.” Aranea’s voice cuts through her thoughts; a sharp fingernail pokes her side, just a bit too gently to hurt. “Something eatin’ ya? Got those heavenly voices in your head again?”

“No,” Latula lies. “And they’re not voices. We’ve been over this.”

“They might as well be,” says Aranea with a dry chuckle. “Still don’t have a damn clue what that’s all about.  _ Ooh, look at me _ ”—she lowers her voice to match Latula’s measured monotone—“I’m Latula, I’m all spiritual and connected to the universe, I can see every atom in perfect harmony, every living soul in existence, all of my future and past lives—”

“Very amusing,” Latula says quickly, a dull heat creeping up her face; Aranea had hit a little too close to home. “All this laughing really has tired me out. I might go to sleep now—”

“Tula.”

The hand at her side closes around her arm and she finds herself roughly pulled down. Aranea’s expression is as lazy and lighthearted as ever, but there is a hint of steel around her eyes that never quite goes away, and it feels unusually keen now as Latula meets her gaze without flinching. It feels familiar, too. Entirely too familiar for someone she’s only known for a month—and been sleeping with for half of that.

For a second, she wonders how much of her life she has sacrificed to chasing that familiarity; then Aranea leans closer and it’s easier to just stop thinking.

“You’re hella weird, you know that?” says Aranea, her tone inscrutable, her breath warm on Latula’s face. “And not just about—normal shit. I don’t mean the constant tidying up and biweekly sheet changes. Or the tape all over the floor. Or the unpaid overtime. Or the coffee. It’s somethin’ else. Fuck if I know what exactly, but I know it’s there, and you do too.”

“Oh?” Latula manages to offer. Her heart is picking up pace. Surely it’s too dark for Aranea to notice the pounding of her chest though, surely—

“Don’t ‘oh’ me,  _ Pyrope _ .” Aranea’s hand releases her arm and snakes around her waist instead, pressing her close, and now there’s no way she hasn’t noticed. They really should have pulled  _ some  _ clothes on after the sex earlier, but the blankets were warm and they were tired and—“What’s your deal, hmm?”

“My… my deal?” Arousal is a curse, she thinks distantly; a curse wrought upon the earth for the sole purpose of punishing her. Aranea’s breasts feel enormous against her own—oh, Jesus. Casually, the hand at the small of her back drifts downward, coming to rest on the swell of her bare buttocks. Oh, Jesus  _ Christ _ . And she really does have a long day at work tomorrow, too. She doubts the long days will stop anytime soon.

“What are you even doing?” laughs Aranea, who  _ knows _ the long days will not stop anytime soon. “With me? With yourself?”

The pendant is searing hot between their chests. Latula shivers a little.

“I don’t know,'' she admits, after what feels like several days; several days of missed work and neglected chores and dust piling up on her floors, on her meticulously polished coffee table, on her crisp flat-ironed sheets, on Aranea, on herself as she thaws in the arms of a woman she knows very well and yet not at all. “Some things just feel more right than others. Like they’re meant to happen a certain way. Like”—her heart is pounding in her ears—“like they’ve already happened, even—”

Aranea is very still, and Latula dare not open her eyes to search her face.

“I don’t care if you think it’s strange,'' she says in a rush, pleased with her voice for not faltering. “Like I said, I don’t do any of this for your approval. I’ll make my decisions as I wish.”

The hand on her butt gives a brief squeeze. “As you wish, eh? So this was one of those decisions?”

She suppresses a squirm, but says nothing.

“You know,” Aranea snorts, “I did think you were crazy easy for a hotshot lawyer. Almost suspected you were some kinda plant for a few days, trying to dig up dirt on me for the bottom-feeder of the week.”

“Charming,” says Latula.

“That doesn’t answer the question.”

“I’m aware.”

“Christ, listen to yourself.” In one smooth movement, Aranea rolls her onto her back, straddling her bare hips, her long, tousled hair tickling Latula’s flushed neck as she bends lower. “ _ ‘I’m aware.’ _ Can’t even dodge a question right? Think that’s gonna stop me from asking? From wondering?”

She had not thought it would stop Aranea from asking. She had not been thinking very much at all, and with the full weight of the other woman’s body on hers now, both of her wrists securely pinned down by a single long-fingered hand, it’s a lot harder to even try. She wants Aranea to call her  _ Pyrope _ again for some reason.

Tomorrow is going to be a double espresso kind of day.

“Thing is,” Aranea is saying, “I’m not really the giving up sort. You should know  _ that _ much by now. I don’t know if you’re fucking me for my charming personality and good looks or if you think we were sappy moony-eyed lovers a thousand years ago”—Latula very nearly laughs at that—“and I’m not complaining either way, but I’m still gonna figure you out sooner or later. You’re with me now, got it? ‘Least until I’m satisfied.”

“You can satisfy yourself all you want,” Latula doesn’t say, but it’s a close call. Her breath hitches as Aranea traces a line down her chest with her free hand and hooks a finger under the chain around her neck.

“And I don’t know if this”—she nudges the pendant—“has anything to do with me, but maybe someday you’ll tell me what it means, too.”

The chain is cool against her skin; Aranea gives it a playful tug, and as it tenses Latula thinks it feels rather like a noose.

“Maybe.”

She feels the weight on her shift a little, and now Aranea’s face is closer to her own, a knee moving along her thighs, seeking to part them.  _ Oh, god fucking dammit _ . And she really does have to work tomorrow. She has to—

“I—”

“Take tomorrow off, will ya?” Aranea whispers hoarsely. Latula has a brief struggle with herself— _ Yes! Yes! Oh god, yes! _ —before shaking her head. 

“I can’t. Lots to do.”

And yet, at this moment, she cannot remember what any of it is.

“Like I said…” She does not have the will to clamp her legs together; Aranea has been toying with her for too long, probably hoping for just this effect.  _ That’s just like her _ , Latula thinks irritably. Then she remembers that it has only been two weeks.

“Like I said. Take a day off. Clear your head a bit. I have a lot to do too, you know.”

“Like—! Like what, exactly?” A powerful thigh has now firmly lodged itself between her legs; she is completely pinned in place, hands immobile and body pleading. “What happened to having nothing to do?”

A rough hand grasps her chin, tilting her head backward, and Latula feels all of herself swept up in a hungry kiss. “Turns out I have  _ you _ to do.”

“That was terrible,” she manages to gasp once she has caught her breath. “Stop talking and fuck me already.”

Aranea grins, white teeth gleaming in the night, and obliges.


End file.
